


lend them an ear and the kingdom will fall

by cassi0pei4



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Dirty Talk, F/M, Imp of the Perverse - Freeform, Mildly Dubious Consent, Power Imbalance, Rough Body Play, Rough Oral Sex, Season 4 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:08:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28836099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassi0pei4/pseuds/cassi0pei4
Summary: Directrix Spellman needs approval from the Emperor for her arts academy.
Relationships: Faustus Blackwood/Zelda Spellman
Comments: 83
Kudos: 99





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Given the power imbalance in this AU, I don't think interactions can reasonably be considered entirely consensual. That said, I haven't tagged this as non-consensual because it also doesn't venture into the flagrant non-consensual side of things. But note that this is somewhat borderline and so if the scenario is triggering, please don't read on.
> 
> Title from "How Long" from Hadestown, by Anais Mitchell

He had wondered how long it might take for the Imp to bring her to him.Once upon a time perhaps, it would have been her alone that drove his wish, but he had learned the hard way that craving her would never bring him to power, but power would always bring him to her. 

The application appeared on his desk on the morning of the second day of the Imp's reign. 

> _A Request for an Addendum to Waiver 572 to Special Order #8._
> 
> _Special Order #8: By order of Emperor Blackwood all gatherings of larger than fifteen unrelated persons must seek prior approval before the start of congregation. Any person, or persons, found to be violation of Special Order #8 shall face investigation and possible prosecution for crimes including, but not limited to witchcraft, treason, sedition, or conspiracy to commit same._
> 
> _The undersigned do herein request an addendum to a previously granted waiver to Special Order #8, as described in the space below._

He traced the delicate signature at the bottom of the page, Zelda Phiona Spellman. Even as a girl she had had such lovely penmanship.She has always made the letter Z so unreasonably seductive, as though it, itself, were the curve of a woman's form, perched on a desk, her legs crossed in the bottom curve, her chest arched in the top.

It seemed his wife now headed the Academy of Arts, seen and otherwise.His mouth twitched at the joke only he would ever understand, as he read her carefully scrawled proposal.He could almost hear her gentle, placating voice:

> _After our beloved Emperor's generous and most wise decree allowing for the formation of the Academy of Arts under his protection and authority, we are pleased to report all pedagogical indicators well above local averages, see Supplements a-c and no staff or students involved in investigations or arrests by His Emperor's guard.We humbly ask our Emperor's allowance for a small increase in staff (2) and students (3) so that we may continue to honor his patronage and protection with our God-granted, artistic gifts._

Faustus, of course, had never granted the prior waiver nor issued Special Order 8 or any other.But it seemed the Imp had seen fit to install Madam Spellman with license to operate an academy for the arts, population, 20, which she now sought permission to raise to 25.How delightful. 

Faustus pushed aside the dozen or so other papers from his desk, idly scratching behind Anubis's ears, before calling out to Prudence in the outer office.

"Ready yourself and your deputies," he gestured to the paper in his hand, "an inspection this afternoon."

She nodded with a curt bow of her head, before leaving him alone once more.He traced her signature again.

How delightful indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consider this a foreword just to set the stage.


	2. Chapter 2

He did so enjoy this newfound ability, striding into the academy and making people scatter before him, like so many minuscule ants. He dispatched Prudence and her commanders off to search the dormitories and classrooms, before proceeding to the Director's - Directrix’s, he corrected himself - office. 

As he approached the office, he found that voodoo priestess hurrying about, no doubt planning some form warning. With a scathing glance he halted her in her tracks. 

“We will not be disturbed.” It wasn’t a question, but she still nodded, taking her seat again and deliberately not meeting his gaze. 

"Emperor Blackwood!" Zelda stood immediately as he threw open her office doors, the shock in her voice washing over him deliciously. "To what do we owe the honor of your presence?"

He paused before answering, letting himself survey her slowly before taking in his old office, idly wondering which changes she had wrought when he left and which were the Imp's invention. 

"I am here to conduct your interview, while my deputies conduct a search of the premises, in light of your waiver application." He held up her file in explanation. 

"I never received word to expect you, Emperor,” Zelda moved to greet him, confusing twisting her pretty face, “I might have prepared a more appropriate welcome.”

There had always been something so satisfying about catching cunning Zelda Spellman completely off guard and today was no exception. 

“Naturally I find it important to conduct such matters with an element of surprise,” he replied curtly, “It would not do to allow witches the opportunity to conceal themselves.” 

“Of course,” she inclined her head. "May I offer you some refreshment? Tea?" She began to pour herself a cup before he answered, her hand trembling slightly, "Or something stronger, if you prefer? 

"Tea," he replied, curtly, watching her perform the familiar ritual, "Two sugars." Zelda had always teased him for his sweet tooth, but she made no remark, as she dropped two cubes into the cup and poured the steaming liquid in a steady stream. She settled the cup before him as he sat in the high-backed chair she had so often occupied and she resumed her seat in his. 

He was pleased to see her hands shaking slightly as she retrieved a cigarette from the gilded case on her desk, flicking a mortal lighter twice before managing a spark. 

"You seem nervous, Madam. A guilty conscience weighing on your mind, perhaps?”

"Not at all," she leaned forward, as though about to tell him some secret, "It's simply not everyday I have our beloved Emperor in my office." She smiled gently, "please forgive me, I must confess myself a bit starstruck." 

He considered her words for a moment before replying, “The truth always wins out. I'd bear that in mind, Madam.”

She met his gaze briefly, almost defiantly, before demurring, breathing out a soft stream of smoke, “I assure you, I have nothing to hide.” 

“I’ll be the judge of that.” He let his gaze travel over her blouse, black with a stiff white lace collar and pearls before speaking again, “Let us begin.”

He proceeded through the standard questions with little fanfare. Zelda after all was far too competent to say anything untoward when all her faculties were present. 

He shuffled several papers aside, filing them away as he concluded, “Very well, Madam. With these matters settled, provided my deputies find nothing untoward in their search of the Academy, I believe I may grant your waiver,” Zelda smiled in relief at his words, “under one condition.” 

She nodded, already accepting whatever demand he might make. 

“I must examine you for a witch’s mark.” 

Zelda couldn’t entirely cover her inhale of breath at his words, “Forgive me, your excellency, but I already completed an examination with my first application.” 

Curse the Imp for denying him that delicious memory. 

“We have no record of it.” He lied, rummaging through her file as though he hadn’t purposefully destroyed the relevant papers earlier that day, “I believe you said you had nothing to hide from your Emperor?” 

Zelda straightened her spine with a frisson of provocation, “Of course not.”

He raised an eyebrow expectantly. She swallowed, setting down her teacup and cigarette and rising from her desk. She strode to stoke the fire that had begun to die down in its grate, bending over deliciously in her tight pencil skirt, “This office does get so drafty in winter. I hope you’ll excuse me while I make it more comfortable.” 

“Of course.” He was surprised to find his voice already rough. It had clearly been too long since he had seen her. 

“Where would you like me?” Perhaps she too had taken notice of his interest. Her voice was steady now, flirtatious and almost haughty. No, that wouldn’t do at all. 

“Remove your clothing,” he said, pleased to find his voice once more business-like and efficient, “and by the desk, in the light.” He gestured vaguely at the spot, feigning disinterest. 

She stepped forward, her hands beginning to undo the dozens of small pearl buttons that bedecked her blouse, first at the back of the collar, then at the edge of each wrist, and then down her torso, pale skin beginning to emerge beneath black fabric. At last, she let it fall, draping her blouse over her chair, before turning to her skirt, bending slightly, breathing in so that she could unhook the back, and slide down its hidden zipper. When she finished, it too joined her blouse, leaving her only in her undergarments, satiny pale pinkish beige that matched her skin, and her sheer black stockings, black bands wrapped tightly, high on each thigh to hold them in place. 

His wife had always been stunningly beautiful, but time away had somehow deluded him into believing that perhaps those memories were an exaggeration. He found himself grateful now for such successful self-deception. Had he retained the true image of what he had once awoken to at his fingertips every morning, he would have surely been driven to even greater depths of insanity. 

She took her position in the light, her hands resting at her sides. Her skin had begun to pebble in the cold, but even so she remained perfectly still, her infamous pride preventing her from even attempting to cover herself. 

He moved to take his place behind her, leaning in to inhale the soft scent of jasmine and rose that he knew she dabbed behind each ear every morning. He let his hands trace her shoulders like a prospector panning across her skin for hidden flecks of gold. He slid one of the pale satin straps to the side, carefully tracing the newly bared skin, before replacing it and turning to give the other strap the same treatment. She shivered at his touch. 

“Are my hands cold, Madam?” he murmured, tracing the curve of her shoulder blades with the tips of his fingers. 

“Not at all.” He was pleased to hear her voice was soft now, almost breathy. 

He grasped her left arm gently, straightening it at her side and shifting himself so that he could better study her skin. His eyes travelled down from her shoulder as the tips of his fingers brushed down softly until he reached her wrist where he let himself tease for a moment longer. Zelda shivered again. He wondered if she had begun to bite that plump bottom lip. She had always been devilishly sensitive here. 

He splayed her fingers over his, studying each in turn, examining every crook and bend as though her witch’s mark might hide beneath her knuckle. When he reached her ring finger he paused, tracing the subtle line that marked her missing wedding band. 

“Are you married, Madam Spellman?” he couldn’t resist asking, looking up at her face. She must have closed her eyes as he’d examined her, as they flew open in surprise at his words. 

“No, never,” he hadn’t realized how much it would hurt to hear her deny it, “what would give you that idea?” 

He brushed it off, “Call it an Emperor’s intuition,” he said, smirking, “I must say it strains credulity that one so lovely of my subjects would remain unclaimed for so long.” 

Her cheeks flushed pink, a smile playing on her lips as he went to examine her right side as he had her left. 

He was surprised to hear her speak again, “My elder brother, God rest his soul, was quite a foreboding presence for my would be suitors. I believe he chased my most serious contender away.” 

He froze momentarily at her words, his heart beating fast. Even as his wife, Zelda had rarely spoken of their youth together and never once of Edward’s intervention. 

“And now, with the Academy,” his hands resumed their path along her arm, “I find myself so busy,” her voice nearly broke as he teased the sensitive underside of her other wrist, studying it for a mark he already knew he would not find.

“Such a shame,” he said, studying each finger on her right hand as he had her left before letting it fall back to her side. 

He returned to stand behind her again, his hand tracing the silky scrap of fabric still clingy to her back. He shifted it slowly, pulling gently to bare the smooth skin underneath. Zelda gasped at the sensation, soft satin no doubt teasing against her nipples as he pulled. 

“So far you appear unblemished.” He settled the fabric back in place, brushing one hand down her spine. 

“Turn to face me,” he murmured, stepping back for a moment to allow her space to pivot. 

He hadn’t quite prepared himself for the sight of her, so close and face-to-face again. Her eyes were dark and heavy-lidded, her cheeks still pinked with adrenaline. He let his hand stroke slowly through her hair, brushing the soft waves aside under the pretense of studying the skin beneath it. He could see every eyelash flutter as she closed her eyes at his touch. 

His fingers traced across her collarbone before coming to rest just above her satin-obscured breasts. She opened her eyes again, her chest rising and falling faster with each passing moment, as though she was having trouble drawing enough air with each breath. 

She slowly reached behind herself with one hand, unhooking her bra and baring herself to him, “I know it’s improper, but I do hope you’ll allow it.” She held up the garment, though neither of them spared it a glance, “the fabric is so delicate, I would hate for it be damaged in the examination.” 

It wasn’t even a convincing lie. He could have her right now, push her onto the desk and fuck her until she screamed his name, but something held him back. Perhaps it was the undercurrent of steely mirth in her gaze, as though she was quite sure she was besting him once again. He couldn’t stand the thought of it. He wanted, needed, to reduce her to feeling some fraction of the desperation he felt in his every atom. 

He traced her newly bared skin, letting his fingers brush teasingly over her nipples so that she couldn’t entirely stifle her responding gasp, “I’ll allow it, but I’ll ask you to follow decorum in the future Madam, or I’ll be forced to consider it an attempt to subvert my authority.” 

She shook her head, and he was delighted to find that she seemed to have taken to biting the inside her cheek, the skin puckering as she held back those needy little whimpers she usually favored, “No, of course not, Emperor.” 

She closed eyes in pleasure, stifling as gasp as he knelt before her to continue his examination. 

“Very good.” She pressed her thighs together at his words. 

He could smell her, smell how wet she had become as he slowly traced his fingers up her calves, one and then the other, before sliding her stockings down her skin to bare more of her legs to his view. It only took a few moments to find his prize, the small crescent moon mark high on the inside of her thigh, her true witch’s mark that he had had the pleasure to trace a dozen times before. 

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” he rubbed the skin again as her eyes opened in confusion, “I do believe you’ve been marked, Madam.” 

“No,” she breathed out in shock, “it’s not possible, please your excellency” she seemed to sway where she stood, leaning back against her desk to steady herself, “I swear to you, I am not nor have I ever been a witch.” She was trembling head to foot, “It’s a birthmark, nothing more.” 

He smirked up at her, still stroking her mark and drinking in her desperation, a tonic for his wounded soul. 

“There is a test, under such circumstances.” She nodded above him immediately, pleading for a reprieve no matter the demand.

“Most do not know that a witch’s mark always retains the scent and taste of the Devil’s sulfur and brimstone.” She shivered at his words, or perhaps that was due to his warm breath on her delicate skin as he slowly leaned forward. 

“Let’s see, hm?” He licked a slow stripe up her thigh, ending so close his nose was pressed against her satin-covered cunt. 

She did whimper this time, the dueling fear and arousal leaving her seemingly unable to hold back an audible cry. He smiled at the sound as he leaned away from her. 

“The Lord favors you, Madam. I taste only sweetness.” 

She sighed, her legs still shaking, her eyes closed in relief. By the time they had opened again, Faustus had stood and returned to his papers. He watched with delight as confusion briefly stole across her lovely features, before she managed to button it away. 

“You may dress,” he said, making a show of turning away from the sight as though entirely disinterested. 

It took a not inconsiderable amount of self-control to leave now, when he knew just how lush and ripe he had her after all his attentions. But for the first time, he found the denial almost most satisfying. Let her suffer. Let her mewl and pine and fuck her own hand that night, wishing for more. Satan knows he had suffered that fate often enough.

By the time Faustus had finished scrawling meaningless notes on the papers, Zelda appeared to have recovered some semblance of her usual armor, her skirt and stockings in place, her blouse settled once again on her shoulders as she slowly redid its dozens of buttons. 

“I’ll grant your waiver, Madam Spellman.” She looked up at him as he made his way to the door, confused but obviously pleased, “But at the merest whisper of deviance, I promise to search this Academy from top,” he let himself drink her in one last time, his eyes raking over her slowly, “to bottom.” 

And without allowing her to reply, he swept from the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapters will take a bit longer to post, but since Ch 1 was such a tease I thought I'd post Ch 2 more quickly.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited and updated the tags a bit to best reflect the story.

Vaguely, it occurred to Zelda that she seemed to have, quite clearly, lost her mind. She left the Academy that evening in a daze. It felt as if a dense fog had rolled down from the mountains and settled over everything in her sight. In its wake, all she could see before her were the events of that afternoon, replaying over and over again like a vintage film projected wherever she looked. It rewound and played again as she locked up her office and bid farewell to Marie, as she walked home along the quiet Greendale streets, as made her way up the stairs to the small apartment she shared with her sister, as she wound down her stockings and kicked off her heels and imagined the different pair of hands that had stroked across her skin that day. 

She shook herself, as though a mere shiver might dislodge whatever demon saw fit to torment her with these thoughts. The Emperor had visited personally, yes, but that was only proper of course, taking such a commendable interest in the education of the Empire’s youths. And if in some moments, he had seemed perhaps unusually engaged in the proceedings, well, his fervor for witch-hunting was legendary, and this must simply be one of its manifestations. 

Besides, it wasn’t even as though she would even want any such attention, would she? She had seen first hand the atrocities his empire had wrought: her nephew’s mortuary investigated for witchcraft, her sister under constant scrutiny for the potential sale of degenerate work, the ever present fear that another person she knew would be named and quickly find themselves stoned or drowned or some other horrible fate. 

And yet, slowly she could feel the fog begin to lift, the path before her clearing. If the Emperor was interested in a dalliance of some sort, an assumption which alone seemed presumptuous, that could hardly be to her disadvantage, could it? He was fearsome, certainly, but he could hardly be more likely to accuse her of witchcraft if she spent a few of her evenings by his side. And for that matter, perhaps, if they were to have a few moments post-coital bliss, well, who knows how receptive he might become to certain idea she could whisper in his ear. 

“Alright, Zelds?” Her sister’s cheerful voice interrupted her musings, her short blond hair swaying as she stuck her head into Zelda’s small bedroom. 

“Yes, quite alright.” Her voice felt a bit steadier now. She stood, finding her legs steadier too, “I’ll come help with dinner.” 

Her sister made a face. Zelda’s inability to manage to do anything but burn toast was infamous. 

“Why don’t you come down and I’ll fix you a nice whiskey sour while I make some pasta, hm?” 

Zelda smiled. She really did adore her sister, even if Hilda did often have a heart several sizes too large for comfort in such perilous times. 

“That would be lovely.” 

It wasn’t until she had settled at their kitchen table and enjoyed several sips of Hilda’s frankly excellent cocktail, that she felt the wherewithal to withstand her sister’s inevitable inquisition at her next words.

Zelda steeled herself, “The Emperor came to the Academy today.” 

Hilda’s chef’s knife fell with a clatter, half way through chopping carefully stacked slices of onions that had now fallen into disarray as her sister abandoned them to turn and gape at her instead. 

“Bloody hell,” Hilda cursed, “dropped that like a bomb, didn’t you?” 

As the shock of it receded in Hilda’s expression, she could see apprehension replace it, “Is everyone alright? Marie? The students?” 

“Yes, thank the Lord,” Zelda replied, sipping her drink again as Hilda turned back to the onions. 

“So, why did his most excellent high Holiness deign to visit, then?” Her voice dripped with disdain as she sliced onions with more violence than was strictly necessary. 

“Hush Hilda!” Zelda chastened, “Must you always tempt fate like this? The Emperor’s spies are everywhere.” 

“Unless his most majestic majesty has spies hiding in these tomatoes,” She poked her knife at the opened can on the counter that would soon become her marinara, “I think we’re safe.” 

The door swung open, and Zelda couldn’t stop herself from jumping at the sound, nearly spilling the remainder of her drink across their worn, wooden table. 

“It’s just Cee,” her sister said, placatingly, leaning over to kiss her fiancé as he made his way into the kitchen. 

“What do you mean, just me, Hilda? Am I not enough for my darling love?” He kissed her again and the sight of it had Zelda entranced and annoyed in equal measure. She had never been able to deny her little sister anything, and would never have wished to deprive her of so obvious an object of her affection, but that didn't mean she was moved to try and hide her obvious discontent. She and Hilda had lived here together ever since they’d been forced to abandon the mortuary, and it was a rare day that her sister’s beau didn’t feel like an interloper.

Her sister giggled, blissfully unaware, “More than enough.” She pecked his cheek again. 

Cee smiled down at Hilda before walking to the side table to set down his things and removing his jacket, “So, what were you two talking about?” 

Hilda replied without turning from her now simmering pot of aliums, “Zelda was just telling me about our beloved Emperor’s little visit to her Academy today.” 

Cee dropped the keys he had been about to hang on the wall, ducking down to grab them quickly before turning to Zelda, “What happened?”

“Nothing to concern yourself with,” Zelda replied. She didn’t relish the thought of having this particular conversation with a third party present, even one she had learned to trust with her sister’s life, “Everyone’s fine.” 

“Why was he there?” Cee repeated, unsatisfied. 

Zelda shrugged, “I applied to increase the Academy’s enrollment, another few students that we might shelter perhaps, one or two more staff members.” 

Cee scoffed, settling himself at the table across from her, “That hardly warrants an imperial visit.” 

Zelda continued to feign nonchalance at the very question that had besieged her psyche since that afternoon. 

“Cee’s right,” Hilda added, dumping tomatoes into the pot, “If he came himself, there must be some reason, some spy reporting on you or on Marie?” 

“Our emperor hardly sees fit to enlighten me to his latest intelligence,” She replied sardonically, taking another sip of her drink, before carefully continuing, “I think perhaps he had another reason for attending to the matter in such a,” she paused, her eyes flicking to Cee before continuing, “well, in such a personal manner.” 

“What other reason could he have?” Her sister scoffed, turning to face her as the sauce simmered. 

Bless her, Hilda always had been so charmingly naive. Zelda had thought that perhaps a fiancé would have signaled the end to such innocence, but found herself almost inexplicably pleased that it had not. 

She met her sister’s expectant gaze, raising an eyebrow suggestively and waiting for the penny to fall.

“Oh heaven above,” Hilda recoiled and made a hasty sign of the cross on her chest, “Really?”

“I think I know when a man is interested, Hilda.” Zelda said, superiority dripping from every syllable, as though she hadn’t interrogated that very question ever since she'd felt his hands on her skin. 

Cee strode hastily to the liquor cabinet, poured himself a frankly unhealthy amount of bourbon and downed half of it in a single gulp. 

“Well, Christ on a cracker,” Hilda murmured so distracted she didn’t even move to tend to the pot of water that was quite clearly about to boil over. 

“Quite,” Zelda replied, curtly. 

“Did he-?” Her sister couldn’t seem to finish her question. 

Zelda shook her head. Hilda seemed to sag against the stove, before coming back to reality just fast enough to adjust the pasta before it boiled over. 

“Surely your sister wouldn’t—“ but before Cee could finish his thought, Zelda cut him off, impatient, “Oh yes, I’m sure denying the Emperor would go just swimmingly for all involved.” 

Cee sighed, settling at the table and taking another gulp of bourbon. 

“And besides,” Zelda continued choosing her words carefully, “it’s not as though I would want to refuse such attentions.” 

Cee and Hilda gaped at her unison. 

"Are those tears Hildegarde?" Zelda asked, surprised. 

"No, well, yes, but," she gestured at the pot, "just onions." 

Zelda continued, somewhat relieved, “It would prove useful, would it not?” The question was nearly rhetorical, but something in Zelda had been craving confirmation since she hatched her plan, some assurance that her burgeoning and inexplicable desire was honorable. “To have the Emperor’s favor?” 

Cee scoffed in disbelief, his head falling to his hands before he standing resignedly to fetch a bowls and cutlery for dinner, “You think what, that you’ll play nice with Blackwood, flash him a little leg, get down on your knees and then he’ll, what? Stop drowning witches every month?” 

He dropped the dinnerware a little harder on the table than necessary, the ceramic clanging in protest, “You know, Zelda, I always knew you thought a bit too highly of yourself, but I never dreamed you actually thought that thing between your legs was magic.” 

Zelda briefly considered throwing her drink at him, before her sister intervened, “Oy!” Hilda smacked him lightly on the back of the head, “I will not have talk like that in my home, Cerberus.” 

Her sister so rarely said her fiancé’s full name that the sound of it nearly always had him instantly cowed. He frowned, but gave no retort, settling down at his spot at the kitchen table and looking at Zelda as though daring her to respond and provoke Hilda’s ire as well. 

Zelda knew that game too well. She smirked and sipped down the last of her cocktail in silence. 

“And as for you,” Hilda turned to her, settling a steaming pot of pasta in the center of the table, “You, Zelda Spellman, are playing with fire.” 

Hilda took Zelda’s bowl to fill with food. As she returned it to her, she met Zelda’s gaze, worry painted over every inch of her sister’s round features, “Kindly make sure that we don’t all burn up in those flames?” 

Her sister’s words echoed in her mind as she lay awake all that night and into the morning. Of course the idea of it was a bit dangerous, but, really, it could hardly be considered more so than anything Hilda got up to with her little band of rebels, and Zelda had never lectured her about that. Well, at least she hadn’t done so recently, having given up hope of convincing her little sister to be more careful. 

But thoughts of the Emperor and what she would or wouldn’t do if she saw him again managed to consume her only until her harsh reality bled through once again. When one was running an Academy for the arts with only twenty percent of the necessary faculty and staff, there was hardly time for idle fantasies. Zelda pushed him from her mind and returned her daily routines: picking up additional lessons and solo tutoring for advanced pupils, chaperoning the younger students from meals to classes and adjudicating the drama their older peers inevitably created at every turn, and all the while trying to keep the ancient building that housed them from quite literally falling down around their ears. Some days she could hardly believe the Academy was still standing and the fact that hot water still managed to flow through such rusted pipes was nothing short of — well, magic, though she was careful to never use that word. 

Thursday afternoon, a little more than week after the Emperor’s visit, found Zelda tucked into an alcove on the third floor of the Academy library, shelving returned books and wishing every minute for funds for a proper librarian. She had just placed a stack of Beethoven’s concertos back in to proper chronological order when she heard a commotion in the grand hall so great that boded the arrival of only one man. 

She pushed the sheet music aside, her heart leaping into her throat, as she took the spiral stairs down two at a time despite her heels, smoothing her dress as she went. She had just reached the library’s ground floor when its heavy oak doors were thrown open and Emperor Blackwood emerged, strikingly framed on either side by lieutenants in the same red and black. Her heart seemed to double its speed at the sight. She steeled herself, settling her curls in place and walking forward with the steadiest steps she could manage. 

Was she imagining things or did the Emperor seem to smile as she moved into view? 

“Prudence, you supervise the search of the dormitories. Marcus, you take the classrooms. I want anything suspect confiscated and brought to the grand hall for inspection. I will search the library personally.”

Both of his subordinates nodded immediately, dispatched by his orders. 

He smirked coldly, crossing the library in confident strides. 

“You wouldn’t have been hiding, would you Madam Directrix?”

She felt it again, that curious sensation from when last they met, as though his voice tugged something within her and she was little but warm taffy to be stretched with every word.

“Not at all,” She stopped walking, waiting at the front desk and trying to act nonchalant as he continued to close the remaining distance between them. It took her a moment to steady her voice, “If I had known you were coming Emperor, I assure you I would be been there to greet you,” in for a penny, in for a pound? She leaned forward, smiling, “with bells on.” 

His eyes flashed, “Oh would you?” He smirked for a moment before his face fell back into an unreadable expression, “You wouldn’t have perhaps used that time to hide some degenerate books instead? Perhaps here, in a library where I’ve allowed you so many that one or two might slip through the cracks?” 

She opened her arms to gesture at the shelves around her, letting the plunging neckline of her dress slide a little further open as she did, “I’ve nothing to hide.” 

His eyes followed her movements exactly as she’d hoped they might, settling on the red velvet covering her chest and licking his lips in such obvious interest that for a moment she had an absurd desire to laugh. 

“My spies report that you are manufacturing and distributing despicably indecent literature to impressionable students.”

She knew, inexplicably and yet without question, that his words were a total fabrication. An accusation like that was so easily proved false that any spy worth their position wouldn’t dare make it baselessly, lest they find themselves strung up in the dungeons and whipped to death for misleading their Emperor.

“As one of your most devout subjects, I can hardly even imagine what such literature would entail, but please,” she tossed her hair gently so that her waves shimmered in the light, “search wherever you’d like.” 

“Oh, I shall,” he said, watching her with the look of a toddler who had managed to grab a particularly delicious sweet. 

He turned away, striding through the library and beginning to pull books from the shelves, seemingly at random. She followed a few paces behind, unsure of what he could possibly be hoping to find, anticipation and adrenaline making her hyperaware of every sight and sound: the thud of book after book on the tables, the flutter of paper tossed this way and then that, the soft clouds of dust set alight by small windows of setting sunlight. 

Minutes past in silence, stretching on like the void, Zelda not daring to speak and interrupt his search. 

“Why what’s this?” The Emperor pulled a volume she had never seen before from one of the shelves. Her stomach fell as he flashed the cover at her. The words were in some foreign language she couldn’t read but bright across the cover was an image of a naked woman, bathed in moonlight and writhing within a pentagram on the ground. Her heart seemed to fall into her stomach at the sight. She didn’t need to be able to read the book’s title to know its contents must be degenerate in nature. 

“My, my, how utterly profane,” he sounded delighted, “I should have you arrested you on the spot.” 

Zelda shook her head, beginning to plead for mercy, terrified she had somehow read him catastrophically wrong. But her pleas only seemed to anger him further, “Perhaps I should whip that pretty back raw in the town square, leave you in the stockades as a warning to every woman who passes by.” 

He stalked towards her, his face sneering as he taunted again, “I wonder, is the whole Spellman family a little coven witches? That nephew running the town mortuary? Why, my spies have even heard reports of questionable activity at that bookstore in town." 

She froze, hardly daring to breath, "Perhaps I'll direct my recruits there next? I believe your sister is the proprietor, is she n—“ 

Something wrenched loose deep in Zelda’s core, an incandescent rage that lit her like so much brush set ablaze in the Greendale forest. One moment she felt him leaning over her, murmuring his threats and the next her wrist was caught in his hand, inches from smacking her palm across his cheek hard enough to bruise. 

His voice was quiet but deadly, “Surely, Madam, you didn’t intend to strike your Emperor?” 

She was panting, lightheaded, staring down at her own hand as though it belonged to someone else, another woman from another time. The horror of her actions sluiced down her back like ice water, so terrifyingly cold that she froze, her mouth opening and closing, seemingly unable to make a sound. 

"I- I- Please forgive me, Emperor Blackwood,” any moment now she was sure to be clapped in irons, “I’ve no idea what—“ would Hilda be forced to watch her execution? “—no idea what came over me." 

But rather than calling for his deputies to aid in her arrest, the Emperor released her wrist with a smirk, shifting closer. 

“Go on,” he leaned into position, turning his cheek with dramatic intention, making the action plain, “try again.” 

He couldn’t mean it, could he? She gaped at him, gripping her offending hand in the other, afraid it might see fit to follow the Emperor’s mad instructions without her consent. 

“I believe I gave you an order, Madam,” he said, his voice like gravel, barely rising above a whisper. 

And then it came again, that overwhelming urge to set herself aflame, just so long as she could pull him down with her into the ensuing inferno. Her arm swung hard, her palm cracking across his cheek with a stinging force that left her own skin smarting. 

Her heart was racing, his eyes bearing down on her like a predator sighting its prey, his cheek flaming with her handprint. She had done it now, given him the ultimate cause for arrest: what was treasonous if not striking the Holy Emperor himself?

Instead he smiled, palming his own cheek as he moved towards her, pressing her back until her legs hit one of the library’s tables and she could move no further. In an instant, his hands were in her hair, pulling her head back and pressing their lips together in a kiss that seemed intent on swallowing her whole. 

She moaned before she could help herself, kissing back with equal fervor, letting her hand come up to trace his heated cheek to make sure the last few moments were more than a fever dream. His hands slid down her body, pulling her closer to him, gripping her hips as though she belonged to him and lifting her up until she was seated on the edge of the table, books falling aside forgotten. 

"You know, I've had men stoned to death for lesser crimes,” he murmured as he pulled back, panting. She felt a shiver of fear at his words, but then he kissed her again, and she found the sting of his threat lessened with every moment of breath pulled in unison. 

For a moment, she considered playing meek, but her earlier pleas had done nothing to rouse his sympathies. 

She angled her hips to settle her legs around his waist, pulling him closer. Perhaps the Emperor wanted something that no one else was foolish enough to give him? Or perhaps she was merely tired of letting herself feel ruled by fear. She raised one eyebrow in challenge, “Is that so?” 

The effect was instantaneous. The Emperor nearly groaned in delight, kissing her again and encouraging her movements, his hands sliding down the edge of her daring neckline until the hidden wrap of her dress pulled free, deep red velvet and lace sliding aside. 

"Perhaps, I could be persuaded to pardon you for your crimes,” he murmured into her neck and Zelda felt her cunt clench at just how rough with desire his voice had become. 

He seemed somehow, inexplicably, to know exactly how to touch to have her keening. His eyes studied her face as he brushed soft scrapes across her hellishly sensitive nipples, letting the lace fabric that still covered them amplify his touch until she couldn’t stop her head from falling back in pleasure. 

“Our Emperor is most magnanimous," she replied, almost surprised to find that she was no longer acting, not even a little. 

He threaded one hand through her hair, pulling hard enough to sting in a way that Zelda found embarrassingly pleasurable, "But, I must be convinced of your loyalty, Madam."

Oh she could convince him, could hardly wait to convince him. She licked her lips, her hips shifting to rub core against the erection already tenting his trousers, “How ever can I—” he bit at the base of her neck, worrying the skin between his teeth so that she was forced to almost moan her next words “Oh! How will I ever persuade you?" 

He pulled back, his eyes black with want, “I’m sure you'll think of something."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags and rating updated

He was beginning to remember just how skilled she was at this. Not the act that followed, though there too of course she had always been more than adept, but at this very moment, this dance between them, her seeming placation with submission while gleefully impelling him further along the path that led only to his inevitable surrender to basest desire. Did the Dark Lord have some special hand in her creation, crafting her so that she might forever have such a singular gift of provocation? Or was she perhaps specially tuned to him, her mere presence stirring some frequency in his core that forever damned him to vibrate with want the closer she became? 

He threw her dress to the floor with a fervor that suggested that the fabric had somehow offended the Empire. She clawed at his shirt, in response. He could hardly stand how much he wanted her, not meek and pliable Madam Spellman cowed by her Emperor, but her— his scheming, prideful, ambitious witch of a wife. He hated her for it, for the power she levied over him so effortlessly every time she denied him any bit of herself, every time she locked away little pieces like fragile toys with which he was forbidden from playing. 

His hand curled around her neck, squeezing her throat tightly enough to make the threat patent. Zelda froze at once, her hands falling to her sides, abandoning his now unbuttoned shirt now hanging about his shoulders.

“Loyal subjects ask permission before they touch their Emperor,” he murmured, holding her fast. 

She closed her eyes, leaning into his grip for a moment, just hard enough that her voice was rough with lack of air when she spoke, “Do you want me to stop?” 

He growled in earnest at that, “I want you to learn some fucking manners.” He slammed her back onto the table, so hard she would surely be bruised the next day, before seizing again, pulling her back to him and then pushing her to her knees. She looked up at him with such devious intent in those green eyes that for a moment he almost believed he had shook her loose from the perversion’s hold.

But then she smirked, shifting forward, her voice high-pitched and simpering, “Oh please, most high, most exalted Emperor,” she was batting her eyelashes like a fucking school girl, “might you allow your most devoted subject to touch you?” 

She pressed herself against him, rubbing her cheek against his tented trousers, her face a perfect picture of feigned innocence. She couldn’t know how remarkable an impression of his spellbound Lady Blackwood she was performing, but the mere thought that this time she required no tinkling music box had him struck dumb with want. 

She pressed a kiss to the fabric, “Can I touch your cock? Can I taste it?” She let out a little moan that he found himself desperate to believe genuine, “I can feel how big and hard you are,” she pressed her cheek against him again as though to demonstrate, closing her eyes in pleasure, “is this all for me, Emperor? Does your loyal subject please you?”

He felt any semblance of control he had once possessed quickly slipping from his grasp. He took refuge in his anger, that bottomless pit of fury fed by her alter’s betrayal and deceit, “Would a loyal subject be harboring this kind of filth?” He pushed her back from him and dropped the offending text in her lap.

She eyed him carefully as she held it until, to his amazement, she opened the book and began to flip through the first pages. When he had conjured it moments earlier to provide fuel for his accusations he had never dreamed this Zelda might actually read it. He wasn’t even sure this Zelda would possess her alter’s dexterity with satanic language. 

Her eyes flicked quickly back and forth, from his face, to the book and back again. 

“I can’t make out any of these symbols,” she bit her lip suggestively and tilted the book so that he could view the image she had just studied, a red-haired woman on her hands and knees as a man tattooed with a pentagram fucked her from behind, “but perhaps these witches do have some innovative ideas.” 

“What a treacherous little blastphemer,” he murmured unable to hide his delighted awe. He couldn’t stop himself now. He unzipped his fly and began to stroke the tip of his cock. Her eyes followed his hand, as she shifted so close he could feel her every breath.

“Beg for your Emperor’s forgiveness, Zelda,” he said, his voice thready.

He felt more than saw the shiver at the sound of her first name. Her tongue slowly began to lap at the head of his cock as her innocent eyes met his. And then her rouged lips stretched wide as she slid forward and, Satan save him, swallowed him whole. 

His eyes fell shut as white hot pleasure overwhelmed him, so intense he thought he his knees might give out. He wound his hands in her hair, pulling her to him, guiding her head back and forth and fighting not to audibly curse as she slowly robbed him of whatever bit of sanity he still possessed.

“My, my, what a talented tongue,” he panted, as she swirled it over and over again, “such a shame to waste a God-given gift, hm? Perhaps, I should keep you? Have you as my concubine?” 

He had to grit his teeth as the image of it overwhelmed him, “Would you like that, Zelda? I do take rather good care of my things.” 

She moaned, taking him in so deep he must be choking her. It felt incredible, so good, too good. He wrenched her away from him, pulling her hair tight as she let out a whine of protest in between her gasps for air. 

“You wouldn’t want to finish this too quickly, would you?” She shook her head even as he continued, “Or is that your devious little plan? Make me come down your throat so I don’t get to fuck that tight, sweet cunt?”

Zelda whimpered. He pulled her up, pressing her back against the table, his cock hard and hot against her hip. She looked positively debauched already: lipstick smeared, hair tangled, bra askew, on her back in the library where anyone could see them. 

He let his fingers drag across her skin and begin to almost lazily pet her slick cunt. She made to try and stifle her cry of pleasure with her hand. Quick as a flash, he pulled it away, “Don’t you dare. Those are for me, angel.” He leaned over her, looking her straight in the eye to make sure his words made in through the fog of lust surrounding them, “I want them all, do you hear me? Every fucking one. Every desperate, needy moan you make.” 

He needed them more than he could say, the tangible proof that Zelda Spellman wanted and needed and craved something only he could give her. He pressed two fingers inside her, relishing the indescribable sound she let out in response. 

“Now, do you want me do come down your pretty throat?” 

She shook her head, half-frantic, “Or would you like your Emperor’s cock in your greedy pussy?”

She nodded immediately, angling her hips and lifting her legs to try and bring him closer. 

“Ah, ah,” he teased cooly, taxing the last of his self-control, and letting his primordial rage drip with each word, “Ask properly.” 

“Fuck me,” she groaned, her anger flaring deliciously, “Christ, fuck me.”

As much as he would have liked to deny her, he found himself entirely lacking the supernatural control it would have required not to snap his hips forward and sheath himself inside of her. She cried out, her hands gripping the table, her eyes closed in pleasure, whimpering with every thrust. 

“That’s it,” he soothed as he set a lazy rhythm, torturing them both in equal measure, “Let me hear you.” 

Some hunger still yawned inside him, craving proof that this was really her, his Zelda, and not some poor imitation the Imp had conjured. His hand fell to her clit, knuckles rubbing mercilessly against sensitive skin. Zelda’s back arched with a groan, her arms pushing to prop her upright, her hips beginning to match his every thrust. He could think of no better evidence that this was her than the astonishing greed radiating out of her in every whimpering moan, every scrape of her nails and clench of her cunt. The Imp may have turned her God-fearing, but no matter the universe, Zelda Spellman took to pleasure like the devil’s own whore. 

She pushed herself upright and he couldn’t stop one hand from stroking through her hair, pulling her to him so that when she spoke in a panting whisper, he could feel her breath hot on his cheek, “Do you forgive me?” 

He knew she wasn’t speaking of her betrayal, of secreting away one daughter and turning his other against him, but in the haze of pleasure surrounding him he could almost imagine that she was. 

Her voice was weak, thready, “Do you, Emperor? Have I been a good girl?” 

He growled, pulling her hair taught as he did, “No,” she frowned in confusion, “Not Emperor, say my name, Zelda. I want my name on those perfect lips.” 

He could feel her teetering on the edge of oblivion, threatening to pull him along with her. She looked almost delirious, her eyes just blinking open to meet his just as she whispered, “Faustus.”

His mind went white with pleasure, his body moving as though possessed as his wife cried out beneath him, her nails harsh against every part of skin she could reach. 

After a few long moments, she sighed, settling back on the table, limp with satisfaction. He fell forward, his arms bracing him above her, but the intimacy of her face, so soft and vulnerable now, was too much to bear. He rocked back into one of the chairs, tugging his trousers half-on as he did. 

He watched as Zelda tried in vain to tidy herself, brushing her face with a few soft strokes of her fingertips, one of her hands attempting to detangle her curls, while the other searched idly across the table for the dress that had fallen to the floor. How strange it was to observe such a familiar ritual performed so unfamiliarly. He reached down and retrieved the garment for her, dropping the soft puddle of fabric with a smirk. 

He settled back in the chair, drinking in her disappearing skin like a man approaching an indeterminable fast. She smiled. She did always so enjoy being on display. 

She pulled a pack of cigarettes and lighter from a nearby shelf, lighting one and taking a long drag as she lounged against the table. He could almost imagine it was really her, that she had forgiven him and he her and they could pick up where they had so terribly left off. 

He stood, buttoning his shirt, leaning into her orbit just as she leaned into his. The hand not holding her cigarette smoothed down his collar. 

“After the rather exquisite course of this afternoon’s events,” Zelda paused, her eyes closing as though replaying her favorite moments, “I find myself almost born again at the prospect of joining your harem.” 

Perhaps he could have it now, his perfect wife, dutiful and devoted, in his perfect world. 

“But might I not be in a better position to satisfy you as something more?” 

Something in him twisted at her words, a sense of foreboding prickling the hairs on the back of his neck as she smiled.

“Empress Blackwood has such a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed reading this, please consider leaving a comment.


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